


Will Graham Has Entered the Game

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Brutal Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Collars, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hostage Situations, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Pre-Relationship, Someone Help Will Graham, Torture, Unresolved Tension, Video & Computer Games, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 13:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16137857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: "Do you like games, Will?" a voice asks. Will scoffs, resists the urge to ask; 'How about thermo-nuclear war?'. They sound young. Younger than him. "We've been waiting on you. Your predecessors didn't make it far."Will looks to the door, licks his lips. Flexes his fingers around his knife. "I like games," he says, trying for light-hearted. "What are the rules?"There's a low, buzzing sound, and the door swings open. "Simple," the voice replies. It's a woman, a young woman, probably younger than Will. Mid-twenties, if he were to guess. "Survive."





	Will Graham Has Entered the Game

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in vague season one, before Will Knows, but with no encephalitis and a lot cooler with murder than in canon. Also be warned; I kill off some OCs, and they're pretty young, like college-age.  
> I'm not 100% happy with how this turned out, it started as a mess and finished that way, but I got a bug for it and I'm calling it done now. If anyone watches Criminal Minds, it has the vague premise of the episode where those two brothers capture people and make them play their game of murder. Imagine their shock when they take Will and Hannibal ;D  
> Enjoy!

Will wakes to a sharp pain in his head. He hisses, gritting his teeth and wincing when the action causes pain to flare up the side of his face. He gingerly touches his jaw, up to his head, flesh warm and tender from the aftermath of a heavy blow to his cheek and temple.

He remembers, vaguely, getting jumped. Getting hit. Dragged somewhere as his vision went black.

He shifts his weight, finds he has been dumped against a moist cement wall. He presses his injured cheek to it, sucks in a harsh breath through his nose, and opens his eyes. The rest of his body is relatively unhurt, minor cuts and bruises from being dragged and dumped. He looks around.

He's in a cell, a mesh-wire door and the rest of the walls cement. No windows, no other points of egress or ingress. No bed, or even the suggestion of somewhere to sleep and rest. He swallows, and frowns as the motion is restricted.

He touches his neck. Around it is a thick piece of plastic, a collar. There's a large box on the side of it, and another piece of plastic curling around his ear. He tugs on the collar, experimentally, finds that it has no give. His frown deepens, and he licks his lips, forcing himself further upright, back to the wall.

He hasn't been redressed, is still wearing his long-sleeved shirt, his jeans, his boots. Clothes he was wearing as he left his house. He was on his way to an appointment with Hannibal, too lazy and too tired to dress in something finer. Truthfully it had been an effort to get out of the house – he would have much rather stayed in, with his dogs and his sweat-soaked bed and his whiskey.

But cancelling on Hannibal is rude. He did it once, and the disappointment – faint, but there – on the other man's face when they'd spoken again had been enough to dissuade him from doing it again without proper warning.

Hannibal would have likely come to him, anyway.

He looks around again. There is something in his cell, as it turns out. He prowls over to it, sees his jacket wrapped in a tight knot, and when he unwinds it, a knife falls out. It's a slim, dainty thing, hardly threatening and he wouldn't even use it to gut a fish.

The earpiece crackles, and a voice says; "Good. You're up."

Will doesn't recognize it. He jerks in surprise, growling softly, but resists the urge to tug at the earpiece, even though it's a cheap thing and settles uncomfortably over the arch of his ear. He tugs at the collar again and, knife in hand, gets to his feet.

He walks to the door and presses his hand against it, finds that it doesn't give, doesn't open. He swallows again, working his neck under the collar, and looks up. There is a single camera, red light blinking. It follows him when he moves.

He clears his throat, looks down at the knife again. He's been trained, as all police and FBI personnel are, on what to do when taken hostage. Remembers the training, remembers the rules. Eat what they feed you. Try and connect to them. Try to empathize and soften them to you.

So, he swallows, and says; "My name is Will." He receives no answer, and looks up to the camera again. "What's yours?"

He gets a laugh as his answer, and resists the urge to bare his teeth at the camera. He thinks, if he listens closely, he can hear two voices. "Do you like games, Will?" the second voice asks. Will scoffs, resists the urge to ask; 'How about thermo-nuclear war?'. They sound young. Younger than him. "We've been waiting on you. Your predecessors didn't make it far."

Will looks to the door, licks his lips. Flexes his fingers around his knife. "I like games," he says, trying for light-hearted. "What are the rules?"

There's a low, buzzing sound, and the door swings open. "Simple," the voice replies. It's a woman, a young woman, probably younger than Will. Mid-twenties, if he were to guess. "Survive."

Will swallows, tightens his hand on the knife. The outside is very dark, only a single blinking light, glowing red, illuminating a long, wet-looking hallway. It blinks like a heartbeat, steady, slow. Will can see nothing else in the hallway – more cement, piping. He's in some kind of warehouse, or basement complex, if he had to guess.

He leaves, for there is no other way to go. His senses are on high alert, listening and looking for any movement, any prowling enemy in the void left whenever the light isn't on. There's another camera at the end of the hallway, and as he approaches the end, a second door opens with another buzz.

He's let into a large room. A storage room, with nets and boxes like something out of a video game. Instinct tells him to rifle through, to look for a better weapon.

He clears his throat. "I don't want to alarm you," he says lightly, keeping to the shadows, "but I'm not exactly a prime target for something like this. People will come looking for me." His phone and wallet have been taken – he has nothing on him he could use, except his belt. Even as he thinks it, he unbuckles it and wraps it around his free hand, his wrist, tooth of the buckle pointed out between his fingers.

The woman laughs again, though it's somewhat shaky. "That's okay," she says warmly. "They'll find you, one way or the other."

Will tries not to think too hard about that.

"There must be an objective," he murmurs, prowling low between a stack of shelves. They look weathered, the boxes on the shelves covered in dust although the shelves themselves are not. Clearly whoever constructed this did it recently, with some regard to the aesthetic. "Beyond survival."

A second voice laughs, this one deeper – older and masculine. "You got a smart one," he says. Will hears him more distantly. There must be two of them, then, watching him, controlling the doors. If there are two, there's a high possibility of one other person in this game with him, collared and mic'd like he is, playing along.

"Why don't we cross that bridge when we get to it?" the first voice says. Will calls her 'One' in his head. The man, 'Two'. He freezes when he hears another door open, something shuffling its way inside. "Focus, Will. The game's about to start."

A shadow passes in front of Will, and he ducks down with a curse as a bullet flies over his head, embedding itself in the box behind him. He scrambles back, into the shadows, his knife at the ready as a second bullet comes, missing him entirely.

Ah, so it's _this_ kind of game.

Will forces his heart and breathing to calm, listening intently to the other person as they move between the shelves. He chances a look over a mass of netting, catches dark hair and slim shoulders, before the person whirls and shoots at him again.

He growls under his breath. "Don't suppose that thing has limited ammo?"

"She has extra magazines," Two tells him. Will huffs, swallowing, and skirts along the far side of the room. If he can make it to the door -. "Isn't that right, Anna?"

"Please." It's a girl, and she sounds like a _child_. Will winces, gritting his teeth, tugging on the edge of his belt. "I don't wanna play this game anymore. I don't want to _play!_ "

"He's the last one, Anna. One more, and then you're done, I promise. He's the only one left on the opposite team."

A _team_. So there had been others. Will swallows.

Will catches movement in his periphery, ducks down around another shelf, and sees the door. It leads to another room, this one well-lit and looking uncomfortably like a medical office, with linoleum floors and a sickening amount of blood already there. Will sees someone's hand, cold and white. Smells blood and decaying flesh.

He bolts for the door, growls as Anna shoots at him again, and collapses just within it. Thinking fast, he slits his own palm, hissing in pain, and smears his blood along the edge of the door, and lets out a groan like she hit him. He sees her shadow, slim and stretching long at his side. He slumps to the ground, takes a deep breath. Watches.

Waits.

Her hands come first, clutching the gun tightly, and he surges up, knocking her fists upwards as the gun goes off again, grabs a handful of her short, dark hair, lets the belt unwind, and wraps it with his hands around her neck from behind. He squeezes, squeezes, tells himself not to twist. She gasps, dropping the gun and clutching at his hands, just as he knew she would, and he tightens his grip, tightens again, and then slams the handle of his knife against her temple, knocking her out cold.

She slumps to the ground and he lets her go, grabs the gun and tucks it into the back of his jeans.

She _is_ a child, he realizes. Barely into college, if he were to guess. She's pale and thin, gaunt-looking from spending God knows how long inside this place. He pats her down briskly, finds two extra magazines and puts them in his pocket.

His ear piece crackles. "You have to kill her, Will," One says, and she sounds almost frantic. "That's the only way to win."

Will growls, ignoring her. He looks around. There's an examination table, and the hand he saw belongs to the body of another boy, Anna's age. His throat has been cut and he lies in a huge pool of his own blood, eyes whited out in death and staring up, up, at Will.

Will shudders, thinking of Abigail.

"Are they all kids?" he demands.

Two laughs. "Of course not," he replies. "That wouldn't be very fun."

So this is the game. Two narcissists with a thirst for control and power, catching and collaring people and forcing them to act out their sick murder fantasies. Or, he thinks, remembering how soft and frantic 'One' had sounded, perhaps an Alpha-Beta pair. He snarls, runs his hands through his hair, one of them still slick with his blood, and jerks his head in a harsh shake.

"I won't kill her," he replies.

A soft 'click' under his ear is all he hears, before sharp pain ratchets through his neck. He cries out, clutching at the collar, and a high-pitched whine fills his ears that, even as he removes the earpiece and lets it dangle, doesn't stop. It's everywhere, piercing his head so harshly it feels bone-deep, and he clutches his head, growling and stumbling against the wall, falling over Anna's legs, and slides to a crouch.

The whine cuts off, abruptly, but the sharp pain in his neck lingers. "You'd best do what we say, Will," One growls at him, distant with the ear piece dangling from his neck, but Will hears it. She talks like she's warning him; "You try and take off the collar, you get a shock. Try and resist, you get a shock. That was only half-frequency. We can make it far worse."

Will growls, forcing himself to stand on shaky legs. He looks at Anna – she's stirring, from the high-pitched whine. The collar around her neck looks old, caked with sweat and blood. Will takes his knife in hand, approaches her.

He kneels down, and corrects his ear piece. The silence feels anticipatory, like an animal waiting for its prey to crawl close enough to devour. He grits his teeth and sets the knife under her jaw, between the collar and her throat.

She opens her eyes, wide, and sucks in a weak, terrified breath. She grabs at him, shaking her head, eyes wet with tears. "Please," she says. "Please, no."

"Just relax," Will murmurs, and with one sharp tug, he pulls the knife through the collar, severing it in two. She gasps, tears falling as it comes apart and falls around her neck.

The shrieking, electric crackle starts again, louder this time, sharper. Will groans, covering his head, and Anna screams in pain, hands to her ears and knees pulled up to her body. Will tries to stand, tries to get away, but he can't – he can't think past the sharp pain in his neck, the shrill ring of the piercing tone in his head. It feels like it fills everything, makes his heart want to stutter and still, makes his ears feel wet with blood.

But Anna stands. Without the collar, she isn't getting the physical pain around her neck. She takes Will's knife from him, expression grim and determined, and Will shrinks back, snapping at her.

"I have to," she says.

"Don't, Anna," Will replies. He's sliding through the boy's blood, thinks absently of infection and contamination as she advances on him. "I don't want to hurt you."

She huffs a soft, hysterical laugh. Will can barely hear it over the metallic screech. "I don't want to hurt you, either," she says. "But we're not allowed to do what we want. This is the game."

Will grits his teeth, reaches behind himself and pulls out the gun. His hand shakes, but he sets it on her chest and snarls. He can barely see, barely keep his eyes open. His neck aches, down to his collarbones, up to his hairline. He wants to rip the damn thing _off_.

Her eyes widen, and she falters.

"I'll shoot if I have to," he warns her. This isn't part of the training. Torture changes the rules. "Leave. Run away, get out if you can."

She pauses, looks to the gun. Looks at Will. Looks up, where there's another camera. The whine grows in pitch, in volume, and Will hisses and wonders if a human brain can melt at a certain frequency. Probably. It certainly feels like his is.

Finally, she sighs, and offers him a small, faint smile. "You're not gonna shoot me," she says. She sounds so sure. She knows nothing about him, and yet she sounds so sure.

Will lets her take a step forward, lets the camera catch her intention so that he can defend himself later, and shoots her. Once, through the neck. A quick, relatively painless death.

She gapes at him, blood falling as water down a cliff, and falls to her knees, then forward, onto her face on top of the other boy. Immediately, the whine shuts off, and Will gasps. He's sweating, shaken to the core – not from the murder, no, this is a much more physical thing than that. He's seen enough blood and death to consider them good friends.

He shakes it off as best he can, stands and ejects the magazine in the gun. It holds eleven rounds, not including the one in the chamber. There are four left – so, she's used this on more than just him. Of course she did. Will wonders if she found it, or took it off someone else.

His shoes are slick with blood, his ass and back wet with it, his hands coated. He wipes them on his shirt – no sense worrying about cleanliness now – and takes his knife back from her, wraps his belt around his waist and tucks the knife into it, and reloads the gun.

"Alright, you son of a bitch," he mutters. "Where to next?"

 

 

He finds another man. This one has wild eyes and keeps yelling at Will to escape, that the demons will come for him. He has a long machete and manages to slice a deep wound into Will's flank before Will grabs him, puts the gun under his jaw and pulls the trigger. He's older, older than Will, and looks up at Will with wide eyes, like Will is an avenging angel – but the look is quick, as the bullet shreds his brain and tears him away from this world.

When he kills him, he hears Two snarl. " _Fuck_ ," he hisses, and Will winces at the volume.

"You're doing a good job, Will," One says, warmly. She sounds like she's smiling.

Will growls, shrugs off the man's body, and goes to the next room. He freezes.

This next room is set up like a miniature concert hall. There are plush chairs covered in red velvet all facing towards a single stage, no larger than what might fit three or four performers. On the stage is another victim, a man, sitting in a chair. His head is tilted back, throat slit open and a pipe shoved down his throat.

It's not a cello, not like the real one, but it's pretty damn close.

Will growls, winces as he puts his hand to his bleeding side. He steps closer, gun held in his free hand and ready to shoot, and approaches the man. His dark skin shines with blood under the bright lights, and Will climbs up the two stairs to see his face.

It's the string shop owner. The suspect for the Opera House murder, Tobias Budge. Will tilts his head, and then his shoulders tense, and he goes still. He feels eyes on him.

He lifts his head, looks around, but sees nothing. Yet the feeling of being watched, more than the cold lens of the camera, nips at his neck, slides down his spine. He looks back at Budge. His blood still looks fresh, gleaming slickly on his clothes.

He reaches out, touches the end of the pipe. Wants to shove it down further, to the floor. Wants to see the pool of blood grow, reflect the overhead lights and color them both red. "Did someone on my team do this?" he asks.

Two growls. "There are no _teams_ ," he spits. "Just players, and us."

Again, eyes on him. Will is too exposed. His shoulders roll, and he looks around, spies folds in the curtains that could easily hide a man. They reach the floor, a deep red velvet the color of the blood on Budge's chest.

He turns around, eyes the seats. There is one, propped open with what looks like a fire axe. There's a piece of paper pinned between the seat and the handle, and he goes to it, heart in his throat.

Opens it, reads;

"Forgive the mess, dear Will. I'm afraid I wasn't allowed time to clean up. You must move quickly – they are not patient people, and there are many more where Mr. Budge came from."

Will's breath catches, and his knuckles whiten around the paper, making it crinkle and fold. His head is reeling, like the aftereffects of the harsh whine. He looks around, knowing now, knowing that those eyes on him, they'd been -.

He doesn't whisper his name. Cannot afford One and Two hearing it.

Hannibal is here.

Hannibal is…playing the game?

He leaves the amphitheater, contemplating this new development. The fact that Budge and Hannibal are on the same 'team' is a strong indicator that whoever these people are, whoever is 'controlling' them, knows what they're doing in terms of finding victims. One just doesn't happen to catch a killer and a skilled surgeon with a penchant for bloodshed by accident. Anna was a…an anomaly. Or maybe someone just as dark, Will doesn't know, and he'll never know, now.

But the boy, the fact that Will is One's last player, suggests that her team had been stacked outside of her favor. Two is definitely the dominant of the pair. Maybe One is being forced to play as well, forced to watch people die or be killed for the sake of the game, forced to live with the consequences of playing just as Will and Hannibal are.

Of course, the consequences of death are not something he's troubled himself with for a while. Hannibal, neither.

He should be worried. He should be afraid – most people would be. But the fact that Hannibal is here settles him. He is, as ever, the silent watcher, the prowling hunter that follows Will's trail, leads him to his slaughter. The eyes are his shoulder, watching for things Will does not see, outside and within. Whispers through the chrysalis. Hannibal killed Budge and warned Will there were others, watched him, and yet let him go.

He could have killed Will, could have finished the game and earned his freedom, but he hadn't. There are several reasons for this, Will thinks, as he finds another hallway, ears and eyes trained sharply for movement as he prowls down it.

The first; Hannibal didn't want to kill Will, because of their relationship, because he likes Will well enough to spare him, at least for now.

The second; Hannibal doesn't think he would win. Will discards this possibility as soon as he thinks it. Of course Hannibal could win – he's had more time, covered more ground. He knows the ins and outs of this facility, the places to hide and wait, the places for ambush.

Maybe he wants to save Will until last.

Maybe he wants Will to survive, so they can hunt One and Two together.

"How many are left?" he asks, whisper-soft.

"Four," comes the reply. "Including you."

So, three against one. Or two against one, and Hannibal the ever-wayward fourth piece. Self-serving. That sounds like him.

Very quietly, One says; "Now there's three."

"Son of a _bitch_!" Two yells. Will hears something slam, something shatter. Perhaps he threw an object in rage. "What the Hell are you doing?"

Will clenches his jaw as the whine starts again, falling to his knees and clutching his head. The action jars his injured side and he hisses, clenching his eyes tightly shut as his head pounds, _pounds_ , and he wants to claw at the collar, wants to tear the damn thing off. It might break his neck, and it feels like it's squeezing, cutting off his air. He can't _breathe_.

The whine shuts off, and Two says with a growl; "That's your final warning."

"The fuck was that for?" Will demands. "I'm doing what you want."

Two laughs, the sound high, hysterical. "It's not specific to people," One tells him. "Everyone hears the whines, feels the shock."

Will considers this, brow furrowed as he prowls away from the amphitheater, down another hallway. The layout of this building makes no sense to him, and seems to go on and on like metro tunnels under a city. Reconverted sewers.

He emerges into another room. It's very dark, and there is no distinction between shadows and air absent objects. Will frowns, pressing his back to the wall just inside the threshold, and winces when suddenly bright, stadium-like lights flare to life, blinding him.

He ducks his head with a curse, one hand lifted to shield his eyes, blinking rapidly to try and get them to adjust.

Then, he freezes, as a gunshot rings out. It's loud, echoing along the hallways, along the walls, back the way he'd come.

He turns, sucking in a breath, his heart in his throat, for he is certain of one thing:

Hannibal did not fire that gun. Guns lack intimacy, lack finesse. Hannibal would never use one if he had the choice.

He rushes back down the hallway, half-blind and feeling his way along the walls, and then something gives, a door that wasn't there before, and he falls into another room. This one is lit all with candles, and there are canvases and tarps that throw sharp shadows. He almost stumbles over something on the floor and gasps, catching himself in a half-crouch against the wall.

"Oh, Will." Hannibal's voice is mild, but strained. He's propped up against the wall, clutching his stomach, his forehead shining with sweat. Will is bowed over him, one hand propping himself upright, breathing hard as Hannibal meets his eyes. "Good. I was hoping you'd survive."

Will growls. "Where is he?"

Then, he hears a sound. It's the low, rumbling snarl of an animal, and Will straightens, his hand grabbing his gun, but before he can raise it, sharp pain explodes in his face, and a huge beast of a man lunges against him, throwing him to the ground. It registers, sharply, that the pain in his cheek and jaw was caused by a knife. His mouth floods with blood and the knife is yanked out, and Will snarls, throwing a punch as the man retreats, towering over him.

He's very tall, his eyes wild and the collar around his throat slick with blood. He bares teeth, falsely-sharp, fake ones like that of a wildcat. He has a gun in one hand, knife in the other, and his shirt is torn open, revealing cut flesh down to the bone. Will grasps his cheek weakly, lightheaded from the pain, and distantly he can hear Two frantically crying out encouragement, yelling 'Get him, Francis! Rip his pretty face off!'.

The man – Francis – snarls, lunging for Will again, and Will shies back, hissing as he ends up enfolded in a sheet of canvas. It falls, covering him, robbing him of sight, and he wants to shoot, but wouldn't risk hurting Hannibal.

Not if Hannibal could become a potential ally.

He throws the canvas off of him and Francis lunges again, swiping wildly with the knife. Will parries it, hissing as the blade sinks into his forearm and his fingers twitch, almost dropping his gun. He lets go of it, catches it with his other hand, and shoves it to Francis' thigh, shooting him where the meat is thick.

Francis howls, falling to his knees, and Will rises. Francis raises his gun but before he can aim, Hannibal is behind him, staggered to his feet, breathing heavily. He looks far less wounded than Will and Francis are – an ambush hunter, doesn't get his hands dirty. He twists Francis' wrist sharply and Francis snarls, swinging his knife and pushing himself to his feet. It's bloodlust, berserker rage keeping him moving, Will is sure. Will's mouth is flooded with his blood, he can't swallow it all, lets it drip between his lips and his teeth, slick on his skin.

The three of them stand there, and Will's eyes meet Hannibal's. There passes between them a singular, knife-edged piece of understanding, and Will nods.

He rushes Francis, ducks low as Hannibal goes high. Hannibal jumps into his back as Will kneels, digging his knife into Francis' gut and cutting him, one smooth line across his stomach. Severing skin, muscle, guts spilling out in a slick pile. Hannibal has his teeth in Francis' neck, rips out a huge chunk of it, and then snaps his neck with a quick, precise move.

Francis shudders, goes still, and falls to his knees. Will scrambles back, breathing heavily, hands shaking and slick, and Hannibal uses his weight to force Francis to the ground. His blood spills bright and thick, soaking into the canvas beneath their feet like fresh art.

Hannibal straightens, wincing in pain, his jaws slick with blood. He spits out a wad of saliva and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.

Will stands, staggering to him, seeking perhaps someone stronger, someone that has always granted him calm and control. Peace. Hannibal's hands settle on his waist, grip his bloodied shirt tightly. Will is light with blood loss, with adrenaline, and Hannibal the anchor, keeping him pinned down.

Then, Will grabs the knife, and lifts his head. Hannibal meets his eyes, and they're black, so black in the darkness. He swallows, and fits his knife below Hannibal's collar, severing it in one clean stroke.

Hannibal smiles, petting through his hair. It feels like reward.

"Son of a -." The curse doesn't even end before the whine starts up, and Will cries out, throat thick with his own blood, and falls to his knees, covering his ears with his hands as he tries to block it out. Without the collar, Hannibal doesn't feel the pain of the shock, but surely the noise -?

Hannibal kneels, tearing off a strip of another piece of canvas, and creates a thick ball with it. He does it again, and then a third piece, fashioning what looks like a crude set of earmuffs. He goes to Will and Will whines, flinching from him – for, surely, the noise and the pain will continue until Hannibal ends his life. Only one of them can win, after all.

But Hannibal kneels in front of him, and takes Will's hands in his own. Will blinks, groggy and sure that he's about to die – after all this, and he's about to die. With so many unanswered questions. How many men did Hannibal kill? Why display Budge so? Why leave a note at all – if he is to emerge the victor, Will wouldn't be able to testify against him. Hannibal could have left Will to die, and walked away innocent.

Hannibal tucks gentle fingers under Will's chin, forcing his head to rise, and Will sighs, too weak to fight it. He meets Hannibal's eyes, but sees in them no predatory intent, no desire to kill. Not even sorrow over the inevitability of losing a familiar face.

Instead, Hannibal wraps the canvas across Will's forehead and around his ears, pulling it in a tight knot at the base of his skull. It doesn't block out the whine completely, but dulls it, enough that it's manageable. Then, he takes Will's knife from his limp hand – and isn't it strange, how Will didn't even think to use it in his distraction – and cuts off the collar.

Will gasps, groaning in relief. His neck tingles, down to his ribs, up to his burning cheek, from the abuse of the shock collar. Now liberated, he feels like he can breathe, wounds and all.

He meets Hannibal's gaze, finds him smiling in relief and welcome, as though Will is a guest who has just arrived for dinner. Hannibal helps him to his feet. Will's eyes drop to the thick trail of blood from Hannibal's cut, and Hannibal seems to be doing a categoric check of his own – the knife wound in Will's arm, the deeper machete stroke in his flank, the red chafing marks of the shock collar. He cups Will's slit cheek, thumb tenderly tracing the edge. It was deep, and Will's tongue aches sharply, the roof of his mouth similarly cut – but it wasn't wide, thankfully.

Will turns his head, spits out a wad of bloody saliva onto Francis' dead body. He still has his gun, and now they have his knife and Francis'. Hannibal hands the knife back, and he doesn't appear to have any weapons of his own.

Of course not. A man like him would kill with his hands.

Will lets out a weak sound, and Hannibal turns to him again, hands gentle on his shoulders to keep him upright. "It's just us, now," Will murmurs, forcing his bruised and bloody tongue to move, to form the words.

Hannibal nods, once. His breathing is labored, but all in all he looks relatively okay. Clearly, wherever the bullet hit, it didn't graze anything that is debilitating. Will, in contrast, feels weak to the bone. The adrenaline is wearing off, instinct telling him that Hannibal is safety, security. That he can trust, and let his guard down. He can still hear the whine, though it is not as jarring, and frowns, looking at Hannibal again.

He laughs.

"Earplugs?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles at him, eyes dropping to Will's mouth to read the word. Just as he read the other words. Of course he can read lips – Hannibal can do everything, it seems. "I found them in the medical ward room," he replies. Will can barely hear him, but he gets the gist. "Seemed useful."

"Didn't think of that," Will says. He didn't think he had time to scavenge, to forage. Would have been smart. He wonders how long Hannibal has been here – if he was one of the first players. Time moves without meaning in a place like this. It could have been hours, days, or mere minutes he's been down here.

Hannibal draws him close, lets Will rest his forehead to Hannibal's shoulder. Without the collars and earpieces, they cannot hear their controllers, but Will imagines Two is not happy with them in the slightest.

Hannibal smiles at him, and heaves a gentle sigh, pulling away and forcing Will to stand on his own, so they can see each other. "The game isn't over yet, Will," he says. Will freezes, wincing in pain, his hand tightening on his gun. Hannibal's eyes lift, to the corner, and Will follows the motion – stupid, probably, to turn his back on a killer. But he sees the blinking camera light, and growls, baring his bloody teeth.

He looks at Hannibal again, finds him smiling fondly.

He clears his throat, and swallows, wincing at the taste of blood and iron in his mouth. "Are you going to kill me, Hannibal?"

Hannibal blinks, as though surprised at the question. He looks down and retrieves Francis' knife – it's much like Will's, short and straight and sharp.

"Of course not," he replies, brows raised and expression one of mild amusement. Will is used to this look on him – even sweaty, bloody, he looks in control. Looks ready, and prepared. "But there are still two other players."

Will frowns, and gestures to Francis with his gun. "The woman told me he was the last."

"Exactly," Hannibal says lightly. "The woman and the man running the game. They are players too, are they not?"

Will blinks at him, his exhausted brain trying desperately to catch up to what Hannibal is saying. "You…want to kill them," he says, weakly. It's not a question.

"I was thinking we'd finish the game," Hannibal replies with a smile. He holds out his hand. "Together."

Will's eyes drop to his hand. He shivers, and steps forward, allowing Hannibal to wrap his warm fingers around Will's wrist, squeezing gently.

"How many did you kill?" Will breathes.

Hannibal smiles. "Is this a competition?" he asks.

Will shakes his head, and huffs a breath. "No." Not anymore, at least. But he has so many questions – the 'why' is obvious. Kill or be killed. Survive, or be devoured. But Will has training, years of experience as a police officer and helping the FBI to become comfortable with death. Hannibal was a surgeon, and now a psychiatrist – he's meant to want to help people.

He thinks of Budge, the crass mockery of his own kill.

Hannibal smiles again. "There will be time for questions later," he promises, voice so low Will doesn't hear it at all. Doesn't hear the whine, doesn't smell the blood on his face, or on Hannibal's. Feels only his warmth, sees only the dark promise in his eyes that says 'Come, follow me, and I will show you how it's done'.

He flinches as Hannibal tugs off the makeshift earmuffs, suddenly, expecting to hear the painful whine. But he hears nothing, just his breathing, just Hannibal's. Hannibal removes his earplugs as well, head tilted to one side.

Will frowns, and looks up, finds the camera no longer blinking.

He huffs. "They fled," he hisses. Cowards.

Hannibal hums. "No matter," he replies, almost purring the words. "I'm sure they will be found, one way or another."

Will tilts his head, eyes Hannibal's carefully placid expression. The fact that he was wearing earplugs the whole time is…interesting. Means his motivations for killing were a lot less objective-driven, without the threat of the noise to spur him on.

"By us?"

Hannibal smiles, a strange light in his eyes. "Would you like that?"

Will returns it. "Well, technically, the game is still going, isn't it?"

Hannibal laughs, and nods. Without the threat of the whine gone, Will feels weak again, and he leans into Hannibal, sighing as one of Hannibal's arms wraps around his shoulders, and Hannibal begins to walk with him through the room of canvases, away from Francis, away from Budge, away from Anna and the boy whose name he never learned.

They pass more corridors, emergency lights the only illumination. They pass the entrance of another room, the stadium-light room, still on. Will sees a body there, too, torn to shreds. Looks like Francis' work.

Another room, this one set up as a dining room, luxuriously furnished like Hannibal's own home. Sees a body on the table, ribs cracked open, heart and lungs exposed. Stomach and guts removed, splattering on the floor. Jaw open, tongue ripped out. He shivers.

Another room, set up like a library, books covered in dust.

He freezes, there, and goes inside. Hannibal follows.

Inside, there is a woman, face-down and naked, eyes blankly staring at the door. Her back has been skinned, exposing her spine and the flesh of her ribs, her back peeled into two large wings that lay flatly on either side of her.

He snarls in recognition. "I killed a man who spoke of angels," he says.

Hannibal nods. "It seems our friends had a keen eye for people you were hunting," he says.

Will raises his eyes. "I was hunting the Ripper, too," he murmurs, knife-edge sharp. "Is he in one of these rooms?"

Hannibal does not flinch. Meets his eyes steadily, head slightly tilted as though Will is a strange curiosity brought from a distant land. "I daresay he is," Hannibal replies, just as quietly.

"Fuck," Will growls, rubbing his mouth with the wrist of the hand holding his gun. His cheek aches terribly, already swelling. It's getting harder to talk, to think, to focus. He looks at Hannibal again, and thinks of the man in the dining room, with organs missing. Thinks of Budge, mimicked but not matched.

Thinks of the girl on the stag's head, the one that followed him home and entered his dreams.

Hannibal hasn't moved. He stands, frozen in place, watching Will as Will watches him.

Will lets out his breath very, very slowly. And yet, still, does not think about lifting his gun. "Was this all a game to you?" he whispers.

"This?" Hannibal asks, and gestures to the room. "I am a victim as much as you are, dear Will."

Will flinches, hates the flicker of warmth in his chest at the affectionate way Hannibal says his name. "That's not what I meant," he growls in reply. "I meant…all of this. You, and me. My _therapy_. Helping Jack." He spits the name. "An indulgence? Was any of it…?"

_Was any of it real?_

Hannibal's face softens, and he circles the woman's body, takes Will's hands in his own. Will could pull the trigger, right now, send Hannibal to his knees, end his life. The cameras aren't rolling, there would be no explanation as to how Will survived, and Hannibal didn't, but Jack trusts him. Trusts his judgement. He would believe, given the evidence. He would see what Hannibal had done on what remains of the videos, assuming they were not taken, and he would back Will, and defend him if the law came down on the wrong side.

But his fingers don't twitch. Don't even move to the trigger.

He meets Hannibal's gaze, knows his eyes are wide and questioning.

Hannibal smiles, and Will flinches, dropping his eyes, whining when Hannibal lets his hands go, cups his face, forces their gazes to meet. "Look at me, Will," Hannibal says, very gently. "Use that marvelous, wonderful sight of yours, and ask yourself if it was merely an indulgence."

"The Ripper is a master manipulator," Will hisses. "Charismatic. Charming. I can't trust a word he says."

"I'm not asking you to trust him," Hannibal says. "Trust me. Look at me."

Will shakes his head, but doesn't close his eyes. Hannibal rests their foreheads together, the fever-warmth of his sweat touching Will's bloody face. His eyes, so dark, so _dark_ , spear Will in place, locked and loaded. Potential is between them – potential for the trigger. Potential for the knife. Hannibal's hands could tighten, twist, as soon as Will moved the wrong way. He'd be dead before he took aim.

"What do you want from me?" he asks instead.

Hannibal smiles, fond and wide. "I want to show you what your eyes have not yet seen, Will," he purrs. "I think, together, we could make something quite…beautiful."

 _Beautiful_.

"Would you like to see this game to its end?"

He wants to see. Wants to understand. Wants to step into the Ripper's mind and know, _know_ , and see everything. Experience everything. In a way not driven by the need to survive. Not driven by fear, but by understanding.

He licks his lips, tastes salt and blood and fever-sweat.

They're the controllers, now.

"Yes," he whispers, confession-quiet.

Hannibal lets out a soft, pleased-sounding hum. He slides his fingers into Will's hair, and Will goes to him, still trusting, still lax – for isn't intimate knowledge of someone, isn't knowing them in their darkest, and their worst, and still wanting to share space with them, the most sincere form of affection?

And, after all, his thoughts, his hands, are far from clean.

"Then we shall hunt together," Hannibal says, and Will shivers at the sound of his voice, the growl of it, as it slides down his spine and makes a home for itself in his chest. "Come, Will. Before the trail goes cold."

Then, Hannibal pulls away, and leaves the room.

Will follows.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to write more of this, but in my head it's Margot and Mason Verger who are the controllers. Maybe they both die, maybe just 'Two'/Mason, since Margot didn't really want to play, maybe she flees the country with Alana, who knows? You can decide, haha. 
> 
> I love you all and thank you for indulging me <3


End file.
